A. Zander - Moscow City

Harper nodded his head. They raced away from the terminal, past a disused runway and onto a service road. A black plane loomed large up ahead, orange lights flashing from its dark underbelly. They pulled Harper out of the car and pushed him up the steps. A blue light soaked the military interior. They took him to the back of the plane, strapped him down to one of the seats and put a black hood over his head. He thrashed his head from side to side as he felt his breath blocked by the material. His hands and feet started to throb as the straps slowed the blood supply. The noise from the engines increased and the plane rumbled backwards for a few minutes before coming to a halt. The vibrations shook his body as they shot forwards and lifted off the concrete. His pulse raced and his thoughts darkened as a hint of claustrophobia took hold of him. The urge to get off the plane hit him and his breaths started to come out in short bursts. The plane rose higher into the sky and leveled off. When the bag was snatched off his head, the blue light had been dimmed to practically nothing. His eyes searched around for something to focus on, but there was only nothingness. A voice came out of the darkness, quiet at first. Harper listened closer, trying to make out some of the words. “…you’re mine now.” The man moved his face into the remnants of the blue light, showing himself for a few seconds.

“Varndon…”

The National Liberal Club sat camouflaged in the London grandeur. Alpha walked up the steps and greeted Connelly on reception. He handed him his coat and umbrella and made his way up the winding staircase. The smell reminded him of the Service in the old days, clubs and lunches, fewer women around and no need for the illusion of transparency that has infected modern government.

“The Foreign Secretary is outside sir,” said the waiter as he walked into the bar. Alpha ordered a coffee and made his way onto the empty balcony. The sunlight shone on the Thames, but failed to make a dent in the murk. Worthing sat at the far end. His hair was slightly damp and a black gym bag sat next to his chair. His red socks shone out from beneath the table.

“Foreign Secretary.”

“John, good to see you. Do sit down.” The waiter set Alpha’s coffee down on the table and placed a menu alongside.

“Do you fancy a bite?” said Worthing.

“I’ll pass. The coffee will suffice.”

“I think I’ll have the lemon chicken. I’m famished.” The barman took the menu and disappeared back inside.

“Have you spoken to the PM?” said Alpha, feigning nonchalance.

“Yes. He’s asked me to pass on his compliments on the Vitsin operation. Everyone is very pleased. Apart from the Chinese of course.”

“The Chinese are never happy.”

“Well, all the same, they didn’t particularly appreciate us starting a small war on their patch.” A group of bankers appeared on the balcony, laughing raucously, before one of them spotted Worthing and ushered the rest back inside.

“Friends of yours?” said Alpha.

“The members know I like to take my meetings out here. It’s just a bit of courtesy.”

Cheers floated over from the water as two party boats passed each other, waving and raising champagne glasses. The captains’ sounded their horns as the boats parted, prompting more hoots from the partygoers.

“The PM is particularly pleased that we did this without the Americans. Giving the cousins a reminder that we are still around is never a bad thing.”

Alpha smiled. “Indeed.”

“And where is the Vitsin boy now?”

“We have him here in London. He’s perfectly secure.”

“Secure is the least I expected. Is he onside?”

“We don’t know at the moment. He’s not saying anything.”

“Not saying anything? What’s your read?”

“Honestly? I don’t think he is on our team. I don’t think he is on anybody’s team. He’s somewhat of an oddity.”

Worthing reached down and wiped some dust from his trouser leg. “The priority here John is not to utilize what he has. The British government is not some casino banking operation. The priority here is to make sure it cannot be utilized by others.”

“We have certain options to achieve that.”

“I imagine we do. I’ll leave it to your discretion, but let’s just make sure we are back to square one on this. The square when the boy did not exist.”

“I’ll take care of it myself,” said Alpha. “You can rely on me.”

“It seems I can. You know, there have been some rumblings on our side about the competence of your head girl.”

“Oh yes?”

“Let’s just say, she may be leaving the hot seat quicker than she thinks. And that means we need someone we can rely on to replace her.”

The waiter re-appeared and placed the chicken down in front of Worthing. The faint smell of lemon permeated the air.

“I couldn’t agree more Foreign Secretary.”

“There was one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“What about these Met detectives that caused you so much trouble? I’d prefer if we didn’t start a civil war with Home Office over this.”

Alpha took a sip of his coffee. “It’s taken care of. The top brass at the Met doesn’t want a war. The three officers that were working the case will be let go.”

“And what about this other chap? The one they sent undercover. Harper wasn’t it?”

“You won’t hear from him again Sir. No one will.”

“Well… that would be preferable.”

A strong smell of bleach filled Harper’s nostrils as his eyes snapped open and he lifted his head a few inches off the metal table. The handcuffs had been replaced with thick metal clamps, fixing him on his back. He looked down at his body. He had been stripped to his underpants. A large purple bruise had spread out from his gunshot wound. Goose bumps covered his skin and he could hardly feel his fingers and toes. A small black dome above him buzzed quietly, watching his every move. He wanted to pity himself, but it was harder than he expected. He’d chosen everything that brought him here. He closed his eyes again and his mother’s voice spoke to him softly inside his head.

“How are you Matt?”

“I’m sorry I don’t call more mum.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. I know you’re busy.”

“Yeah, but it’s no excuse.”

The forgiving tone of his mother was replaced by his stepfather’s anger, standing at the front door of their house, refusing to invite him in.

“If you want to see her, she’s in the graveyard.”

“You buried my own mother without me?”

“And where the hell was I supposed to find you?”

“The station.”

“The station said you were indisposed. I told them to get a message to you, but they said it was impossible.”

“You should have insisted.”

“Look Matt, if you want to blame someone else for you not being there, that’s your choice. But we both know the truth here.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“That woman loved you, more than anything, more than she loved me. And you took it all for granted. Like you took your marriage for granted. If it gives you any comfort, you were the only person she wanted to see when she was on her deathbed. It was your name she was calling. It really is a shame you had better things to do with your time…”

A light in the corner clicked on and the door opened inwards. Hate bubbled up inside Harper as Varndon strolled into the room. Neither man spoke as the door slid closed. Varndon smirked as he watched Harper try to pull his fists free from the metal clamps. The skin on his knuckles turned red then white before he settled back down on the table.